"I spent two weeks prancing around a studio in Queens in my underwear with nine other guys. They were long days. But what the hell, it was Calvin Klein"
About this Quote
There’s a particular kind of shrug in “But what the hell” that tells you everything: embarrassment doesn’t disappear, it just gets priced out. Bergin frames the ordeal with comic self-deprecation - “prancing,” “in my underwear,” “nine other guys” - as if he’s replaying it for friends to preempt their jokes. It’s a classic actor-model move: turn potential humiliation into a punchline, then cash the punchline for credibility.
The specificity does the cultural work. “A studio in Queens” drags the fantasy of glossy fashion into a sweaty, industrial reality. “Two weeks” and “long days” puncture the myth that modeling is effortless beauty; it’s labor, repetitive and controlled, closer to factory work than red-carpet glamour. Yet the brand name lands like a trump card: “Calvin Klein” isn’t just a client, it’s a permission slip. In the 1990s Calvin Klein ads didn’t merely sell underwear; they sold a new mainstream comfort with choreographed eroticism, especially for men, packaged as minimalist cool. Being objectified becomes acceptable - even aspirational - when the objectification is prestigious.
Subtextually, Bergin is narrating masculinity under contract: you can be exposed, scrutinized, and compared to “nine other guys,” as long as you keep it breezy and insist you chose it. The line is less confession than calibration, a way of saying: yes, it was ridiculous; yes, it was worth it; and yes, I’m in on the joke - which is exactly how celebrity survives its own commodification.
The specificity does the cultural work. “A studio in Queens” drags the fantasy of glossy fashion into a sweaty, industrial reality. “Two weeks” and “long days” puncture the myth that modeling is effortless beauty; it’s labor, repetitive and controlled, closer to factory work than red-carpet glamour. Yet the brand name lands like a trump card: “Calvin Klein” isn’t just a client, it’s a permission slip. In the 1990s Calvin Klein ads didn’t merely sell underwear; they sold a new mainstream comfort with choreographed eroticism, especially for men, packaged as minimalist cool. Being objectified becomes acceptable - even aspirational - when the objectification is prestigious.
Subtextually, Bergin is narrating masculinity under contract: you can be exposed, scrutinized, and compared to “nine other guys,” as long as you keep it breezy and insist you chose it. The line is less confession than calibration, a way of saying: yes, it was ridiculous; yes, it was worth it; and yes, I’m in on the joke - which is exactly how celebrity survives its own commodification.
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| Topic | Funny |
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